My breast grew cold and numb,
But my feet were light.
On to my right hand I fumbled
The glove to my left hand.
It seemed that there were many steps
—I knew there were only three.
An autumn whisper between the maples
Kept urging: 'Die with me.
Change has made me weary,
Fate has cheated me of everything.'
I answered: 'My dear, my dear!
I'll die with you. I too am suffering.'
It was a song of the last meeting.
Only bedroom-candles burnt
When I looked into the dark house,
And they were yellow and indifferent.
1911, Tsarskoye Selo
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